“Do you still want to go to the party? We don’t have to. You can’t feel like it.”
“Oh, absolutely. This isn’t as bad as it looks. Besides, it’ll take my mind off it. Let’s go!”
Even better than I expected, he thought, she’s more ravishing than before. A dark strapless gown. Long black satin gloves. Pearls around the neck. He caught a whiff of perfume floating above the whoosh of black tulle peeking from under the skirt.
“You look magnificent.” One little twirl. That licking wiped from mind, the throb receding. On rare occasions I’ve encountered women like this, he thought. He’d seen them across a dance floor or in the corner of a busy café and they stood so much above the herd that they ruined the evening, for the very sight of them made it impossible to look at another without a galling sensation of disappointment and regret. Only tonight, if only tonight, I’ll have nothing to regret.
She hugged a hand around his arm and gathered her rustling skirt with the other. They hurried off.
The immense gray-shingled Victorian mansion flowed down story by story, pressing against the earth, its long porches incongruously lit by strings of gaily colored paper lanterns gently swaying in the breeze. Sprightly music and the happy murmur of a partying crowd echoed from out back. Thankfully, a valet took the Cord. Hawkins and Daisy walked arm in arm across the lawn.
“And you have no clue who did it?”
“I’ve got a feeling I’ll find out.”
“Here?”
“Maybe. Oh, it always could be some crook who saw me cashing in. But somebody’s probably got a grudge.”
“Ooooh, cashed in, did you?” She laughed. “Not too high-minded to take Chet’s tip, after all. What did you bet?”
“A thousand. Somebody was going to win on that horse. Might as well be me. I don’t think a gentleman boasts about his winnings. That’s why I didn’t call the police.”
“Chet’s tip …” She stopped walking, tugging him back by the arm.
“Daisy?”
“You bet a thousand? A thousand dollars!”
“Well, yes—”
“You trust Chet fifty times as much as I do!”
“You only trust him a twenty’s worth?”
“I like hedging my bets. You’re curiously willing to take a cheater’s word.”
“Maybe I’ve learned to expect the worse.”
“Maybe he’s shooting his mouth off? He doesn’t need the money …” They started walking again.
“It’s got nothing to do with money. It’s about power. Rich man like Chet grows up in a world he owns. If he’s not in control, he thinks something’s wrong. Chet just thinks he’s setting things straight. That’s why I wasn’t worried.”
They reached the door. Daisy started to knock, then hesitated, intently gazing at Hawkins, lost in thought, biting her lip.
“Yes … that’s our Chet.” She started to knock, then paused again, adding soberly, “By the way, don’t let our hostess know we didn’t squeal to the stewards. Her horse came in second.”
The door opened. Daisy tugged at Hawkins’ hand, waving and crying out, “Hello, Mr. Harris,” stretching up on her tiptoes. She gave the butler, an older black man, a hug and a peck on the crown of his bald head. He easily grinned.
“There you are—how’s our little Daisy!”
Harris ushered them through the darkened mansion. Across the back threshold came a transcendent, golden light. Overhead, a high yellow and white circus tent gently floated on a summer breeze. With each puff hundreds of softly flickering white paper lanterns lofted up and down, delicately swaying, each one adding its own mellow glow.
Harris led them straight down the rows of tables toward an orchestra and dance floor. Four hundred guests, at least. It wasn’t so much a private dinner party as a state banquet of the racing world, with the yellow and white of the hostess’ stables as national colors.
Hawkins surveyed the table with a mixture of amusement and wonder. An orgy of monogrammed yellow and white. On place tags, dishes, swag-draped tablecloths, napkins and place mats. On the backs of slip covers, embossed matchbooks and, of course, matching floral centerpieces of yellow and white roses. Even the waiters rushed about in short yellow jackets with white piping. The best touch? An artful spray of miniature yellow and white orchids perched daintily in the center of Daisy’s plate. She shyly waited for him to pin it on. A simple yellow rose boutonniere slipped into his buttonhole. Hawkins carefully hid how he eased down into the chair, bracing his back.
Within seconds waiters set chilled pressed salmon platters before them. Damn. I am ravenously hungry, Hawkins realized. Who would’ve thought? Getting the shit kicked out of you, an unusual but demanding form of exercise, it seems. Only with a lingering but vibrant afterglow of adrenaline.
A woman dressed in a severe white Mainbocher gown rushed up to them. The guests at the surrounding tables broke out in animated smiles, softly calling “Millicent! Millicent!” pleading for attention or recognition as their hostess passed.
-60-
Millicent Simpson-Saunders was an attractive, well-kept older woman of uncertain age with graying hair festooned with yellow roses. She began talking to Daisy in an animated matter-of-fact manner, ignoring the low entreaties from the tables around them, which slowly sank in gloom.
“Daisy darling, is this your new gentlemen friend?” She inspected his jaw coolly. “Are you a boxer?”
“Mrs. Simpson-Saunders,” Daisy said, “we tried to get here earlier, I’m sorry—”
Hawkins reluctantly and slowly rose, which lent it a stately manner. “No. It’s my fault. Strictly amateur, ma’am—Roy Hawkins. And thank you for the invitation.”
She placed a finger on her temple, then pointed it at him like a gun.
“You’re Anglo American, aren’t you?” She commandeered a neighboring chair. He gratefully and slowly sank into his chair.
“Why, yes. That’s remarkable. No one ever gets that right. How’d you tell?”
“Process of elimination, my dear. It’s not Canadian because that’s mainly from Scottish immigrants. It’s not American because the vowels are off. Not English because it’s not quite plummy enough. So!” She waved her hands out. “Very transatlantic. Ergo, Anglo American.”
She balanced on the edge of her chair, reached over and plucked an olive from Daisy’s salad. She popped it in her mouth, then reached over and touched a finger to his jaw.
“That must hurt. What happened?”
“Some muggers jumped me in the washroom at the States Hotel while I was taking a shower.”
“Oh, that’s terrible! I’m not surprised though. There’s a lot of riffraff in those old places. Sad to see them run-down, they were so romantic once.” She sighed.
Daisy leaned over, resting her hand on Mrs. Simpson-Saunders’ arm.
“What’s that story? Commodore Vanderbilt’s daughter and the telegraph boy?”
“Oh, I remember that, y-e-s! A Western Union clerk met Commodore Vanderbilt’s daughter on the porch at the Grand Union. They fell in love. He walked right up to the commodore and asked for her hand. And he agreed. Twombly, I think his name was.”
“That is a charming story,” Hawkins said.
“Umm, yes. The old hotels were very democratic. That was about ten, maybe fifteen years after the Great Rebellion.” She winked at Hawkins. “I always call it that because I like to tweak our Southern brethren. They had rooms in every price range then. Couldn’t happen today and it didn’t last long then. Times have changed.”
“That’s right. Millionaires’ daughters can’t flirt with shopkeepers’ sons anymore,” Daisy said. “There are so many scamps out there.”
“Scamps?” Hawkins said.
“Confidence men and liars! Of every sort,” Millicent said, “all on the make, pretending they’re something they’re not.”
“Ah, I—I see,” Hawkins said. A wave of unease began rising.
Millicent quickly wagged a finger at Daisy. “
You have to be careful,” then wagged it at Hawkins. For a split second he felt a chill despite the warmth of summer. “But you got away, Mr. Hawkins? Did they take anything?”
Hawkins took a second to catch up, still stuck on the last distressing exchange. “Uh—yes. They took a brand-new watch.”
“That’s too bad. That’s the kind of thing they like. We had a horrific jewelry robbery three years ago. Took them right out of a safe cemented in the basement floor.”
“You can’t trust anyone anymore,” Daisy said. “I get nervous whenever I take these out,” touching the pearls around her neck.
“Well, you have Mr. Hawkins to take care of you. And he seems ve-e-ry capable. Have you seen our guest of honor?”
“Oh! Walter Ventnor? No,” Daisy said. “Roy wants to meet him.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hawkins said, “why’d you invite a fellow like that?” It was a blunt, possibly rude question but she didn’t seem even slightly ruffled.
“Oh my, you have to have guests who are current. He’s a big celebrity! One doesn’t have to approve of him.”
“You don’t agree with him?” he said.
She lifted her shoulders and sneered distastefully. “No,” lowering her voice, “he’s a low sort of man, a demagogue. No class at all. Everyone knows it!” She waved a disgusted hand. “Oh, well, everyone that reads in the drawing room and not the kitchen.”
“Aren’t you worried about the war?” Hawkins said.
“The war? Coming here, you mean? Not at all. I can tell you after forty-two years of being affiliated with the oil business via marriage, they need our oil vastly more than we need anything they have. Do you realize how little we trade with Europe? Especially since the Crash. Oil’s mainly it. If they tried to attack us, why we’d cut off their oil, that’s all. We’re the world’s biggest producer. Mexico’s number two and we ship most of that. They can’t replace us.”
That totally makes sense, Hawkins realized. The reason he’d gotten the European beat at Bolley was the other, more senior sales reps all took the more lucrative American routes. Could Hitler fuel an attack on North America? Maybe not. Of course, Stalin had fueled Hitler’s attack on France …
Millicent hugged Daisy. “Get your fellow to enjoy himself, dear. Tell him not to be so serious.” She smiled back at him. “Wonderful meeting you, Mr. Hawkins!” She bounced up, grabbed a celery stick from his salad and flew across the tent, munching as she went. She briefly paused at another table, snatching a piece of salmon off a plate, tittering with her guests a moment before spinning on to the next.
“Does she always eat off other people’s plates like that?”
“Oh, big parties are sooo much work. She won’t sit till midnight. I hate to think about it.”
“That’s barmy.” The orchestra started playing some slow music. “Come on! Let’s dance.”
-61-
The band was playing a medley of slow waltzes. They gently embraced. The throbbing in his side seemed to subside, then nearly vanish. A cool breeze blew in from the countryside, ruffling the awnings over the violins. In the brush beyond the crickets started their evening symphony. Everything feels so right, he thought. Daisy close in my arms. The pure freshness of her beautiful hair. Her full skirts pressing against my legs.
That feeling over breakfast at the track. All back. Was it really this morning? The peace. The tranquility. Seems a long time ago. Ludwig, Ventnor, all the rest, out of mind, forgotten.
An overwhelming sensation came over him. This was summer, truly summer. Through the chaos and horror of May, June and July somehow it hadn’t become summer. It had merely gotten hot. The change in the season, the return of life. I saw it. Noted it. But I neither sensed nor felt it. Death came instead. Summer suddenly resonated through him, its specialness. He gave Daisy a little hug against his chest. She lifted her head off his shoulder and smiled. So innocent, so pure.
He bent his head, lightly kissing her neck. She stretched her arms and shoulders, slowly and carefully pressing her lips against his chin. They danced on a minute before he brushed his fingers over her bare back. She lifted her lips, meeting his. They slowly drifted to a stop.
The other dancers burst into applause. They both leaned back with a start. Her face flushed slightly. But the crowd was applauding the band. They both burst out laughing and swung back onto the floor again.
“You know how I told you I recently came back from Europe?” Hawkins said.
“Yes, you saw the war.”
“I was thinking nothing felt right afterward, until now. Now that I’m here with you, everything feels right, normal.”
She stretched up slightly and kissed him on the lips again.
“I hope summer never ends.”
“We’ll never let it end.”
“No—let’s not.”
They kissed again and danced in happy silence for several songs.
Hawkins came back again to the single idea that now completely filled his mind.
“Daisy?”
She relaxed back, happily smiling, swinging in his arms. “Yes, Roy?”
“I was thinking about what you were saying.”
“About what?”
“People being who they say they are.”
“Oh. Yes.”
What to say, he wondered. What to do. But I don’t dare risk letting this go a moment longer. Have to say something.
“I—want you to know I …” God, how can I? he thought. But I must. “Daisy, can I trust you to keep a secret? I mean, a very important secret?”
“I know your secret.”
“You do?”
“You’re a glamorous international jewel thief … on the run from the law!”
“The law—”
“You’re a crack safe-cracker, and—”
The band paused. They stopped. One of those rare moments of genuine clarity and lucidity in life struck Hawkins, an epiphany where a connection suddenly and unexpectedly clicked in. Of course.
“Kelly—”
“What, Roy?”
He shook his head. “Man I know—been talking to. It’s nothing.”
His mental camera iris seemed to be rapidly flicking open and shut. At wide open, he saw new, larger possibilities. Why not take Kelly’s offer? Maybe it is time to say screw all this. Screw stupidity and stupid people who didn’t listen when their lives were at stake. Who gave a damn if the FBI was a big, inefficient, incompetent, overzealous bureaucracy that couldn’t get out of its own way? Or that Hawkins probably wouldn’t—couldn’t—accomplish much of anything? As long as I get paid well to not accomplish anything, fine. Mrs. Simpson-Saunders is right. The Nazis are not coming here. Time to stop wasting my life on the heedless, the complacent and the selfish. Especially on every type and kind of stupid person in the world. Let them have what they want and get what they deserve.
It’s time to save myself.
Then the iris flicked back in. Was the offer real? Kelly himself admitted he, too, had entertained the possibility Hoover merely wanted to break off one of the Service’s wheels. No, it might not be a reliable offer. And how can I not go back? How can I live with leaving that behind, that sense of darkness outside Paris, the faces in the safe house, Mum back in London holding her gas mask in her lap? I must go back. I cannot live with that. The sense of confusion resumed, the nagging questions. Don’t overpromise. At the very least, check out Kelly’s offer back in Manhattan. For now, that offer has one useful purpose.
“I’m thinking of leaving my firm. I’ve been asked to take a confidential position in the federal government at a high level. You must understand this is very hush-hush. It’s been prompted by the situation abroad. National security. The government, because of what I’ve learned overseas, wants me to come in and organize some things for them.”
“With whom?”
“This is serious.” She nodded. “I’m going to hold you to your promise—”
“Yes, yes, I won’t tell!”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigations. But nothing is final, yet.”
Her face went blank for a split second. Then the eyes opened wide as it sank in, an expression that said one thing: Wow.
Wow? All Hawkins’ anxiety and confusion began slipping away on this powerful undertow, carrying him out into this new sea. Chet? He might have more money. But status, position, it could come. It was possible. Everything could fall into place: Washington. Daisy. Summers in Saratoga. In a flash he saw it all: coming home to her, candlelight dinners, weekend trips to galleries, a night at a club dancing, a good book shared by a fireplace. Oh, to ride that wave … ride that wave …
“Oh! Roy, that’s wonderful. That you’d be doing this. For the country. That’d be a great thing. Really, it’s very noble.” She gave him a small hug. “So you’ll be one of those dollar-a-year men they’re bringing in?”
Dollar-a-year? Perhaps there was still room for a bit of disingenuousness.
“Something like that. Oh, I suppose I’ll be paid.”
“Is that why you’re interested in Ludwig?”
“It’s all—involved.”
“It’s safe with me, Roy! If there’s anything I can do!”
“I don’t think so. As I said, I do have some previous commitments that may make that impossible. But”—that wowed expression again—“I think it’s settled.”
“Oh! There’s the guest of honor over there.”
-62-
A knot of listeners surrounded Walter Ventnor, partially hiding him. From a distance his smug, braying tone rode over the crowd, brushing aside other conversations like the cowcatcher on a locomotive. Hawkins and Daisy pushed in. Chet was standing next to Ventnor. He’d replaced his soiled shoes and mixed-bag clothes with an expensive evening jacket in out-of-season black. Ventnor’s expression began shifting, along with his hands and shoulders, to one of wounded concern. “… Question is, why? You know what people are saying,” his voice ostentatiously quieting to a hush, “the president’s losing his mind. The way they so vehemently deny it, you know there has to be something to it, because it makes so much sense with the First Lady spending so much of her time wandering around the dark sections of our nation’s capital looking after her pets. You know what that means. She’s infected the president with syphilis, which you known they almost all have, and now it’s destroying the president’s brain.”
New York Station Page 17
